Drowning in the Desert
by Mae34
Summary: Tim's life is nonlinear, his fears are irrational and his dreams are about waking up.
1. Chapter 1

Great-Aunt Ruth hums a tune Tim doesn't recognize as she gracefully places the cards in an order he doesn't understand. The fringe of her shawl drops down onto the cards and covers them. Tim giggles and Aunt Ruth smiles. She moves the shawl off her shoulder and tucks a strand of grey hair back behind her ear. The rest of her colorless hair is pulled back into a tight, curly bun.

His mom once told him the tune was an old song from the Motherland, but that was all she would say. She never mentioned where the Motherland was or why Aunt Ruth would sometimes cry when she says his name.

Instead, his mom smoothed out his hair and smiled at him with water in her eyes. "It's not you. She cries for someone who's gone, Tim."

Aunt Ruth doesn't cry when she hums, which is why he enjoys moments like this. The cards, she says, tell a story.

"Your story, Timothy."

"How?" He looks at down at them in great curiosity. Aunt Ruth, with her knobby finger, taps the one on top which shows a picture of a man hanging upside down.

"A gift," she whispers. It is the way she says it, like it is a secret only to be told to him, which makes him believe her truth. "It shows a different world than most people see.. of what most people should see."

She trails off into silence and Tim waits. Aunt Ruth tended to stare off in the distance sometimes and forget that he was there. Most times, it lasted for a few moments, but there was another time he had to fetch his mom because he thought maybe she was sick. Mom said it happens because of her age, but Aunt Ruth yelled at her niece when she said that. The foreign language helped censored his young ears, but the message was clear about what she thought about her "age".

The minutes tick by on Aunt Ruth's grandfather clock. He starts to fidget on the old, rickety chair and wonders when it would be a good time to yell for his mom in the other room.

Thankfully, before he could decide, Aunt Ruth's gaze relaxes and she smiles at him. "You show signs of this gift, Timothy."

Tim tilts his head in thought. "Mom says I have a good imagination."

Aunt Ruth snorts. "She says that about me. Your mother doesn't understand."

"She doesn't 'see'," Tim says. He smiles back and it feels like he's sharing a private joke with her.

She leans over and ruffles his hair as she is prone to do when he says something that pleases her. "Yes, Timothy. But you do."

He laughs and then studies the cards on the table. "How does this gift tell my story?"

"Let me show you," she says and places down several more cards. She closes her eyes and the story begins to unfold.

"You were born with a fire, Timothy; so great and wild. There is nothing that could ever extinguish it if you let it burn. Be wise. There is a chance this fire could burn you, too." Her hand hovers over another placement in the cards. "Your life will be moved by your search for Justice. People seeking the same goal will see this and be drawn to you. Do not let go of them and they will not let go of you."

She frowns. "You face many struggles. When you are in love, you will lose control. When you are balanced, something will come to unbalance. When you dream, you will not wake up."

Aunt Ruth opens her eyes, startled, and stares at him with a clarity he has never seen before.

"You will dream in the desert. You will find illumination and there you will die."

The words don't scare, but they do surprise him. "I-what?"

Her words are soft and reserve. "You will die in the desert, Timothy."

"Aunt Ruth!"

Tim turns in his chair to see his mom in the doorway holding a bundle of blankets on her shoulder. He can't tell just how long she was standing there or how she can yell like that without waking the baby. "You do not tell that to nine-year-old boy!"

Unfazed, Aunt Ruth merely shrugs. "My niece, a boy is meant to know Death in order to prepare for its arrival."

With a fury unmatched in anything Tim as ever seen, his mom grabs his wrist and he ends up being frog-hopped away from the table. "Mom! Ow!"

"We're leaving, Tim. There are some things I can handle with her, but she has no right to say that to you."

"But, Mom! Aunt Ruth was-"

"No, Tim! We are saying good-bye."

Tim doesn't think it is fair, really. But not at what his mom was upset about. How could Sarah easily wake up when he's trying to be really quiet sneaking downstairs to watch Saturday morning cartoons, but Mom's yelling doesn't wake her at all?

Somehow, Mom manages to grab all their stuff together with two children in each hand.

Tim looks back to the old woman. It is the last time he sees her, and it's an image that is engraved in his mind for the rest of his life: She sits at her chair, clutching one of the cards close to her chest. A small wave of grey hair escapes to fall in front of her downcast face and there are tears falling down her cheeks.

As they walk out the door, he briefly wonders who she is crying for.


	2. Chapter 2

He is twenty years old when he faces Death for the first time.

"I think I'm in trouble."

Finally able to crack out a whisper, he breathes out the worry he was feeling since this whole mess began.

He finds it odd that it is at this point when he is about to break. He was completely calm when his car broke down under the heat of the Sonora Desert and when he started walking towards help. He didn't feel anything when he realized, in his wanderings, he somehow lost the road.

So why was it now, while watching relief come in the form of dark grey clouds, did he feel the pain of panic rising from his gut?

Two days searching to quench his need for water, two nights listening to the bay of wolves so close to his fire. It was now, on the third day, under the gaze of clouds coming towards him that Tim suddenly knew he was going to die.

"I guess Aunt Ruth was right."

It seems unfair. He is a good son by trying to surprise his parents with a visit before he went back to college. He is financially responsible by driving to California instead of getting a flight. He is a former cub scout by being prepared and making sure his car had enough gas to travel through the desert.

Not that it matters.

Because here he is, wishing and dying for rain.

There is so much he still wants to do: Get his masters, fall in love, save lives. Twenty years is not long enough to live and he has barely lived.

If only he had more time.

He stares at the cacti, standing like sentinels against the sky. The sun is descending again and he's going to need to find shelter to ride out the downpour and survive into another night.

He should, but he doesn't. He settles down on a rock and watches the rolling clouds. Flashes of lightening show signs of the danger coming, but all he feels is starting to break down.

He sighs, leans back, and prays for the rain to come.


	3. Chapter 3

"Come on, McGeek. Tell me."

"Are you crazy?"

In the car, with the full moon as their only light, Tim looks at Tony with disbelief. They already spent the past hour waiting for their prime suspect to mess up and actually come back home. Tony felt the need to occupy that time with his own game of "truth or pester."

Tony's obvious need to keep himself occupied is going to drive Tim crazy.

"Crazy is as crazy does."

"That doesn't even make any sense!"

"Come onnnnn," Tony drawls out. "I'm hot, I'm bored, and I need some way to distract myself from the fact that we can't run the stupid air conditioner while we're on surveillance!"

"No!" He says with finality and he hopes it is the end of the conversation. He can't give into Tony's request. Any sense of self-preservation he learned from working with Tony demanded that he not say anything.

The silence lasts for fifty-four seconds.

"I told you mine."

Tim has a hard time believing that was true.

"Clowns?"

"Yes."

"You're afraid of clowns?"

"Deathly afraid."

"Why should I believe you?"

Tony is put off by the distrust and whacks his partner's arm. "We've worked together for how many years? This is what I get? Have you ever seen_ IT_? When I first saw that movie, it scared the bejesus out of me. An evil monster taking the shape of a clown preying on defenseless kids." Tony shivered with the thought. "I haven't been able to handle clowns since."

Tim never saw the movie, but he remembers his parents forbidding him to see it. "Weren't you twenty when that movie came out?"

The glare Tony gives is highlighted by shadows and moonlight.

"What's your point?"

Tim knows not to push, even if Tony is kidding.

Because maybe he isn't.

"No point, Tony. I'm just saying."

"Right. So I've told you about the evil clowns and now you tell me yours."

Tim sighs in defeat. It's eleven o'clock at night and he's still feels sweat running down his forehead. Summer can't be over soon enough. "As you said, we've worked together for years. You know by now what I'm afraid of."

Tony shifts in his seat and he leans in close. "Now that's where you're wrong, McFraidy Cat," he whispers. "That's something I've noticed about you. Your fears aren't rational. You don't flinch at gun fire or at bombs like you should."

"Neither do you," he interrupts. "It's part of being an agent."

Tony doesn't listen. "You're scared of going up a step ladder, but you have no problem leaning against a balcony of a five story building. One day you're telling Ziva you can't be near maggots and, on another day, you're picking them off of a decomposing ear without batting an eye."

"What's your point? That ladder was ten stories up and, like I told Ziva, the whole maggot issue is personal. What is she doing telling you about that anyway?"

A hand clamps hard onto his shoulder. There is no death grip, but Tony lets him know that he isn't getting away from this. "The point is: I can't get a handle on what scares you and that scares me a little. I'm your partner and I should know this stuff." Tony pauses and thinks the second question. "And don't bring her into this."

No, it isn't wise to bring up the dead.

But what can he say? Tony is right; His fears aren't rational.

"Ok, fine. I'll tell you."

There is nothing rational about what keeps him up at night.

So he lies.

"The whole thing with the maggots was because I was once stranded in the desert…alone, for three days. I…nearly died out there, Tony. I had to survive in anyway possible. Maggots were one of them. It was hot at the crime scene…the maggots on the corpse triggered a memory of me being back in the desert. That's all."

The two stare at each other. The silence deafens them both until Tony sighs, drops his head, and pats Tim's shoulder.

"Fine."

Tony leans back in the seat and taps his fingers on the steering wheel in a rhythm only he can understand. "You don't have to tell me."

Tim wonders why Tony is scared. He knows him better than he thinks he does.

They sit and watch the house.

The clock on the dash turns to 12:23 when Tony speaks again. "I can't stop thinking about her."

It's barely a whisper, but Tim knows exactly what he is talking about. "Me neither."

"Drowned. I can't really see that as an end for her…She deserved something better."

Tim nods. "Yes, she does."

Ziva was born as a child of sand. He remembers Ziva's smiles when she describes her summers in Israel and how she shines on those hot, humid days when it would torture everyone else. Drowning in the cold ocean waters just seems petty and cruel from whatever deity determines that kind of fate.

"You're doing it again."

Tim turns his head and feels the full heat of Tony's glare directed at him. "What am I doing?"

"You- You talking like that. You always talk about her in the present tense. You heard the same news I did. She's dead, Tim."

"I know, Tony."

"Ziva's dead." Tony repeats it again, hard and direct. It's as if he had said it to himself a million times before.

"I know, Tony!"

"So why do you act like she's not?"

Tim doesn't answer.

He can't answer because he doesn't know.


	4. Chapter 4

Tim sighs in content and relaxes his head against his soft pillow.

His pillow also sighs and combs her fingers through his hair.

He really shouldn't be comfortable on the floor. The surface is hard and he is really not sure when was the last time the janitor came through with his broom to this corner of the lab.

Gibbs would have a fit if he should find the two of them here with Tim's head lying perpendicular on Abby's stomach and Abby using Bert as a pillow for her own head. He tries to image what Gibbs would do and laughs.

"Were you imagining Gibbs giving this dazed, confounding look at us right now and then pouring Caf-Pow on your head?" Abby asks and his head bounces a little as she talks. "Because I could just totally picture him doing that."

He laughs again. "Yeah, me too."

"He would have just done a head slap like he usually does, but it's hard to reach you down here on the floor."

He lifts his head to look at Abby.

She smirks back.

"Abby, he hasn't done anything. He's not even here."

"That's because I don't have anything for him yet. It's how Gibbs works. He will be sniffing around here as soon as my baby gives me anything on Ali Mahmoud."

He almost makes a comment about Gibbs being characterized as a dog but decides it's not in his best favor; not when Gibbs has an insane ability at showing up at the wrong (or right) time.

He settles back down and Abby resumes petting him like her favorite pet.

There are times when he's amazed at his relationship with Abby. Their romance fizzled and faded like firework sparklers, but their friendship burned on long after. Somewhere along the way, between then and now, Abby became the best friend he never knew was possible.

He's sure that Aunt Ruth would have loved Abby and it aches him knowing that the two could never meet. Strangely, when that ache comes, he suddenly imagines Aunt Ruth looking down at him in the afterlife and giggling. Maybe, if he was to believe that kind of stuff, she had a hand in their meeting.

He sighs again, but this time it is more morose. "I can't believe I listened to Tony. It's the first rule I learned at NCIS and he still ends up messing with me."

"I know I tried to be supportive of the whole 'going to Baghdad' and 'earning your stripes'-"

"Tried?"

"Ok, maybe not so supportive of the 'bombing' and the 'dying', but I still don't see what the big deal is. It's a lot of sand and it's hot… and my computers work better with you here, McGee."

He reaches up and gently rubs her arm. "It's okay, Abby. I'm here, aren't I?"

"No, it's not okay!" He winces when she tugs on his hair and he can't be certain if that was intentional or not. "You still wanted to go."

There are some disadvantages to being friends with Abby. She has the ability to cut him deeper than any serrated knife ever could and she knows everything about him. She knows he hates a disorganized hard drive worst than he hates minty chocolate. She knows the last time he wrote poetry for a girl was in third grade and he didn't believe Susie Perry appreciated the finger snaps.

And she knows his worst nightmare.

He wasn't lying when he said he had something to prove. Not just to the team, but to himself. He wants to prove that he can handle prophesies. He wants to walk into the sand and not be afraid to fall asleep under grey covers. Maybe he can even find something illuminating.

He thinks all this, but he doesn't say it.

Because there is a voice that whispers back to him: _Not yet. Not you._

Fate doesn't work that way.

Instead, it's away from the sand and it's with Abby on hard linoleum floors.

And maybe, just maybe, there is illumination here too.

"It's good not to go, Timmy. I'm glad you didn't."

He could only look up at the grey ceiling and, with a slight, sad smile, carefully took the hand in his hair and held it in his own.

"Me too."

It is meant to be a gesture of comfort.

Really, it is.

Except he is also sure, if he didn't hold her hand, Abby will try to put little braids in his hair when he's not looking.


	5. Chapter 5

Tim stares out at the full moon peeking out from the clouds. It's another one of those sleepless nights. The clock was one of the first items unpacked from its box and it tells a time later than is respectable for respectable people.

"I think I'm in trouble."

There is so much that needs to be done; it's almost overwhelming: finish unpacking, get a bus schedule and map out his route to work, go through orientation and weapons evaluation under Agent Gibbs' watchful eye, and maybe figure out a way where he doesn't come across as completely inept on his first day.

He should, but he doesn't. He settles down into one of his chairs and watches the rolling clouds.

The heat wave isn't over yet, but there is hope from the weatherwoman on Channel 3 that the coming clouds will produce some much needed relief.

Tim sulks at that thought and turns away from the window. On the desk, there's an outline for a story idea involving the adventures of the 'tough and no-nonsense' LJ Tibbs. It is a long way from becoming anywhere close to a finished novel.

His eyes settle on the second item he unpacked: his typewriter.

Time to free write.

He rolled over to the desk and inserted a piece of paper into the typewriter's carriage. The word began to flow from his fingers onto the paper.

_New day, new beginning. Will I fit in? Can I be a good agent? Will Gibbs accept me? So many thoughts to a new life._

_But in a new life, an end must come. A death must happen._

_Did that happen?_

_what is real? What is the dream?_

_here at a desk. MIt grad, agent, author saving lives on paper and in life. _

_Or is in the desert? Inthe sand A scared kid under gray clouds, living a dream. _

_waiting for the rain to come_

_The nightmare is in waking up._

Tim stops typing and stares at the last line until his eyes blur and he rubs the moisture away. This isn't the time to dwell on this subject. Not when tomorrow is the day he has to be presentable for his first day as a field agent.

He rips the paper out and puts it in the shedder. The whirring sound of torn paper doesn't give him any satisfaction, but he feels less exposed with the evidence destroyed.

A light flashes in the clouds outside the window.

With only a slight hesitation, Tim heads back to his bedroom and sits down on the bed.

He sighs, leans back, and prays for sleep to come.


	6. Chapter 6

"Twenty years ago, my Aunt Ruth told me I was going to die in a desert," Tim whispers.

He didn't know why he was explaining all of this. The only other person in this small room was sleeping on the only cot. He had no audience to take in his words.

"About ten years ago…I nearly did."

He shifts in the chair and there's no way he can get comfortable. Finally, he moves the chair out of the way and settles for sitting on the floor. There's sand everywhere and he knows it's going to be days, maybe weeks, before he loses the feeling of the rough grains between the ridges of his fingers.

"You would think I'd be terrified of being here then."

Tim softly laughs and holds his head between his knees until the involuntary reaction could pass. When it did, he slowly brings his head back up and continued.

"I'm not afraid to die. I'm prepared for it. I think you said something similar to that…My aunt said it too."

He wants to hold her hand. He wants to do anything to claim proof of life on the face before him, but he doesn't and she continues to sleep.

"What terrifies me, _really_ terrifies me…is that I don't remember how I got out. Did I get rescued? Did someone find me and save me?"

He closes his eyes and he could still imagine the tall cacti sentinels and a grey sky.

And he remembers waiting.

"Did I ever wake up?"

He opens his eyes again and any fear he has to show is gone. His smile his soft and kind.

"When will you? Please wake up soon. We want to take you home, Ziva."

His eyes are more align to hers with him sitting on the ground and Ziva lying on the cot. If they open, he wonders what they'll see.

They were born on different sides of the world, with different childhoods and different lives until they interconnected and tangled at NCIS. None of that mattered because they were both children of sand. There was always an understanding between them; a bond that was as far different in the world as they were from each other.

He wants to know so badly that she's here, real to the touch. That she is _alive_.

Except the fire here in Somalia burned her so badly that she's turned to glass and he fears one touch will shatter her to pieces.

Instead, his hand hovers over hers and he breathes out the pain he's been feeling since this whole mess began.

"Ziva, it's time to wake up."


	7. Chapter 7

"Wake up, McGee."

Years of training makes Tim automatically do what Gibbs commands. His blurry eyes open and he slowly takes in the scene his mind is coming into.

He apparently fell asleep at his desk if the crick in his neck indicates anything. Tony and Ziva are absent from their desks and probably went home hours ago. Darkness has spread outside on the window pane and all that illuminates the office are a scattering of overhead lights and Gibbs' desk lamp.

Glancing at Gibbs' desk lamp makes Tim notice the activity at Gibbs' desk. His boss is awkwardly trying to put his jacket on, which is difficult to do when one of those arms is in a sling.

Instead of saying anything, Tim rubs his eyes and gets his own stuff together. He learned quickly that he can help Gibbs by providing rides and running errands for the man, but Gibbs has limits when it comes to jackets and putting them on.

"Ready?" Tim asks when he sees Gibbs settled into his jacket and turning off the lamp. Tim reaches into his pocket and he's slightly confused when he doesn't hear the familiar metal rattle.

"Yep," Gibbs replied and holds up the missing keys. "I'm driving."

Tim blinks his eyes hard to try to clear his head. He isn't really sure this is how this conversation is supposed to go. "Uh, Boss. I thought I was driving."

"No, I am."

"But you can't. Your arm is…" Tim trailed off. He's been making a point at not pointing out the obvious in front of Gibbs. It usually results in a Gibbs-like eye roll where his whole head moves with the eyes and gives an exasperated and non-verbal 'duh.'

Like the one Gibbs gives him now. "I've got the one arm, McGee. Don't need two to drive a manual."

Gibbs walks towards the elevator but turns back when Tim isn't following him. "You're exhausted, Tim. I'm taking you home. Come on."

The use of his first name dazes him a little, but he follows Gibbs into the elevator. He watches in confusion when Gibbs leans over and turns off the power.

"Is that really necessary? I mean, it's like ten o'clock and there's really no one a-"

Tim is immediately prompted to 'shut up' as Gibbs so eloquently communicates with a tilt of his head.

"Shutting up, Boss."

Gibbs stares him down for a few seconds as he tries to collect the right words to say. Having no room to go, Tim lets him.  
"You don't owe me, McGee."

"You saved my life," he answers back.

"It's my job!" Direct, dictated, and honest. The way Gibbs says these words also describes the man saying them. "It's my job as team leader to keep you safe."

Tim's words are hushed, as a calm air going against a storm. "You risked your life to save mine. I can't just let that go."

"Well, you're going to have to. I am not going risk your health, or your life, for some pointless thought that you need to redeem yourself." His eyes soften slightly. "You owe me nothing."

The moment passes and Gibbs softly sighs before turning away and standing next to Tim like they were going down. It would seem normal, except they aren't moving anywhere.

"It's not just my life."

Tim pauses and waits. Gibbs doesn't say or do anything in response, so he continues. "It's…everything. My life, my job, it's all this," Tim waves his hand around the empty space of the elevator. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you."

The head slap was hard but expected. Tim rubs the back of his head and looks at his boss.

Gibbs stares back. "Where you are is because of who you are. _You_ tell your own story, Tim. Don't let anyone say otherwise."

The words strike Tim harder than the head slap ever could.

Aunt Ruth and the cards told him his story, but that story is twenty years old. His aunt's bones have long turned to sand and he's so very tired right now.

Maybe Aunt Ruth was right.

Or maybe Gibbs is right. He and his rules are never wrong.

Maybe it didn't matter.

Maybe he was already dead.

He finds it odd that it is at this point, after ten years of waiting, is when he breaks. It's neither in the desert nor under grey clouds.

It's in the darkness of a muggy elevator, with Gibbs standing sentinel.

Restless exhaustion

Fear, expectation, pain, liberation

Sand in his skin

Everything Tim ever feels finally breaks down.


	8. Chapter 8

"Tim? Are you here?" the voice calls out from his front door of his apartment and Tim curses Andy's timing. He really didn't have time for this.

"Andy, I really don't have time for this!"

"I need some computer help and you qualify, McGeek!" Andy replies through the door. Tim opens the door with a great enough force to startle Andy back.

"I'm packing. Go away."

Instead of doing what he was told, Andy slips his way through the door and ruffles around the apartment.

"Packing? Where you going, Tim?"

Use to Andy's constant need to invade his privacy, Tim only sighs and answers, "I'm going to see my parents."

Andy pauses for a moment from pawing through Tim's desk and looks at Tim, slightly confused. "I thought you were going to stay here until the start of the school year? No money or something like that."

Tim takes the opportunity of Andy's temporary confusion to hastily reclaim his papers and brings them to a more secure location in his bedroom. He continues to finish the last of his packing while he answered. "I did some budgeting and I figured that I could go if I drove there. I haven't seen them in nearly a year. I should at least try before I get busy with my Masters."

"Drive? To San Diego? Wouldn't that take a week to do?"

"By myself? Probably. This is sort of a last minute decision, so I need to leave now to get there and back here with time to see them."

"That's bold of y - Hello, what's this?"

Apparently, Tim didn't get everything on the desk because Andy is at the bedroom door and is holding up a document. Seeing what it is, Tim tries a vain attempt to grab the sheet of paper. Being in basketball and Tim's skill geared more towards computers, Andy is quicker in deflecting Tim and reads the title out loud.

"_Deep Six: The Adventures of LJ Tibbs_?" Andy laughs as he reads the premise. "Naval? Does this have anything to do with that article you read about that Navy Cop?"

"The agency is called Naval Criminal Investigative Service," He retorts back. "And I thought it was an interesting concept."

Andy rolls his eyes. "Sure. Whatever you say."

Tim grabs his gear, takes one look around the place to make sure he isn't forgetting anything and escorts Andy out of his apartment, shutting off the lights on the way.

"It could make a good novel," he says as he locks his door.

"Like a best selling book?" Andy guffaws at the thought. "Oh, please, Timmy. Dream on."


End file.
